


Love Needs An Audience

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drama Department, Drunken Flirting, Graduate School, Hook-Up, M/M, Pittsburgh, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9326597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Cas and Dean hook up, drunk, and that could be the end of it. It will be, if they don't get out of their own way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story that unfolds as a play.
> 
> ETA: Check out this gorgeous [fanart](http://missaceriee.tumblr.com/post/156802686743/i-read-love-needs-an-audience-by-catchclaw-and) by missaceriee! <3

**SCENE I**

[ _Lights up on a narrow kitchen: a counter covered in empties and red solo cups, with a couple stragglers of decent booze. The rest of the room’s suggested in shadow but hazy. Unimportant. Stage left of the counter, there’s a door to the fire escape; the door’s open, with a little streetlight spilling inside. The kitchen’s dim; just ambient light from the street and some from the hallway in front of the kitchen to lead the way. Maybe there’s a string of Christmas lights on the wall, high above the counter.  
_

**CAS** _is leaning back against the counter, a drink in one hand and a goofy smile in the other. He’s relaxed. Not a state of being he wears often. It’s good for him. He’s wearing jeans that are more paint than denim and a t-shirt that’s seen better days. He’s never been in this kitchen, this apartment, before tonight, but you’d never know it: he looks at home there. Part of the scenery._

_Somebody’s smoking on the fire escape and Cas is breathing it in, deep satisfied sigh. There’s music thudding through the walls, a bass you can feel rather than a melody you know. It’s classic rock, whatever it is, but the stereo’s a long hallway away and here, in the back of the apartment, the sound is more noise than song. Cas’ body is going along with the beat, loose limbed and rocking in time._

_He’s not waiting for anyone. Or hiding. He just needed a moment alone. And a refill. He gets both._

_It’s been a long year. And now it’s spring with the promise of summer and you can see it in his body, his face: the relief._

_Cas is still there, lost in himself, when_ **DEAN** _enters from the fire escape. He’s got a smoldering cigarette butt between his teeth and a lighter in his fingers. His mouth’s working around the lyrics to the song in the distance as he reaches for a solo cup and starts when he gets a handful of Cas instead_.]

**DEAN** :             Oh! Sorry. Didn’t—I didn’t see you there.

**CAS** :                ( _with a smile_ ) Hey, no. That’s ok.

[ _Dean snags a cup and dumps the cig. Shoves the lighter in his pocket and parallels Cas against the counter. He’s not sure why. This is his apartment, his place, and yet he feels out of it._ ]

**CAS** :                You’re Dean, right?

**DEAN** :             Yeah. Have we—?

[ _Cas laughs_ ]

**CAS** :                Officially, no. I’m a friend of Chuck’s. He’s—he talks a lot about you, is all. You and Jo. You know.

**DEAN** :             ( _going for a beer_ ) Really? Like what kind of stuff does he say? That would get you to remember my name.

[ _Cas meets his eye, and it’s sharp and clear, that look. The rest of the room gets fuzzier. Less_ _distinct, as the space between them narrows. More focused. They like looking at each_ _other_.]

**CAS** :                Chuck, we were in directing together this semester. And he was taking us through a scene that he’d written. 

**DEAN** :             ( _grins_ ) Part of his masterwork, no doubt.

**CAS** :                Right. So he was trying to explain the scene, the characters, and he kept using you guys as touchstones.  
                       His roommates. He’d say things like: ‘No, no, no, Meg! Jo would do it much bigger.’ Or he’d sigh and go,  
                       “That’s just not what I’m looking for here. Be more aggressive. Dean would put some swagger into it.’

[ _He laughs again, and his shoulder bumps Dean’s. Stays there._ ]

                        Which never helped me because, a) I’m a crappy actor, and b) I don’t know you, right? But that never mattered  
                        to Chuck. He wrote those characters with you all in mind. Hard for him to think of them any other way, I guess.

**DEAN** :             Man. And here I thought he just liked me for my witty conversation and well-placed repartee.  
                       He’s just mining me for material, is that it?

**CAS** :                Mmmm. Price of living with a playwright.

**DEAN** :             That what you guys do? Use your roommates as like artistic fodder or whatever?

**CAS** :                Oh, I don't write plays. I make sets. I bring other people’s visions to life, if you like. Not mine. Besides, I live with  
                       a philosophy major. Different kind of inspiration there.

**DEAN** :             Oh, uh. Sure.

**CAS** :                I’m Cas, by the way.

**DEAN** :             Oh, hey. Nice to meet you.

[ _There’s a pause. Dean finishes his beer and opens another. There’s something in the air_.]

**CAS** :                [ _sudden_ ] Why haven’t we met before, Dean? You’re beautiful. I think I would remember your green at least.

**DEAN** :             [ _flustered, but trying not to be_ ] My green?

**CAS** :                Your eyes. They’re almost hunter. Or maybe forest. It’s hard to tell in this light.

[ _He’s looking_ really _closely, studying, and Dean blushes_.]

**DEAN** :             Oh. Well. Um. I guess it’s because, uh. I’m in undergrad?

[ _Cas_ _tilts his head. Leans closer_.]

**CAS** :                Ah. That’s it. I’m not, you see. An undergrad. I’m old.

[ _Dean laughs_. _A little more sure_. _Ruffles Cas’ hair_.]

**DEAN** :             Don’t look old to me.

**CAS** :                Pfft. I don’t mind it. Being old. Older, anyway. I didn’t really like myself when I was your age.

                        [ _beat_ ]

                        How old are you?

**DEAN** :             24. I’m—I started late. Be a senior in the fall.

**CAS** :                You in directing?

**DEAN** :             No, no. One of Singer’s.

**CAS** :                Ah. You’re in the scene shop, huh?

[ _Cas touches Dean’s face, playful with a splash of want_.]

                        Clean up pretty good there, shop rat.

[ _Dean laughs_. _But he doesn’t pull away_.]

**DEAN** :             That’s a terrible line, Cas. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not a playwright.

**CAS** :                Was that a line?

[ _The music shifts. It’s still loud as fuck but there’s a song amongst the noise. Dean grins._ ]

**DEAN** _:_             Hey, I love this—

[ _Cas kisses him, pulls Dean down to meet him, and Dean goes. Fumbles his beer away, lost_ _somewhere on the counter, and gets both arms around Cas’ body._ ]

[ _It’s drunk. They’re drunk, and it shows, but it’s a good kiss. Long and sloppy and tight._ ]

[ _Cas pulls away, just enough so their noses touch. So he can speak_.]

**CAS** :                Dean, I want—

**DEAN** :             Yeah.

[ _They kiss again and it’s a little less nice. More needy. The music gets hazy, more like the_ _thrum of a motor: persistent and steady and loud. There’s thrashing. Some shit crashes to the floor. Splatters. They don’t notice._

_Dean gets Cas jammed up against the doorframe, the light from the fire escape lighting them  up as the rest of the room disappears. They go like that for a minute and then Cas pushes back, shoves Dean’s spine into the opposite side of the frame and kisses the everloving shit out of him: all hands and teeth and hips._

_Cas doesn’t do this. Ever. Let himself go, especially with someone he doesn’t know. But he is and it’s good and so is he, with Dean._

_And Dean? Is a happy, happy man_. _He shoots his hands under Cas’ waistband and grabs his_ _ass. Holds him tight and grinds dirty smirk. Cas’ head snaps back. He moans, pretty_ _and dark, and it’s nuclear in Dean’s ears. His face_.

_He shoves a knee between Cas’ legs and pulls him back, working Cas over his thigh and_ _squeezing and licking little teasing kisses into his mouth._

_They’re both loud, now, and it’s just them, tight light in a small space. Making their own_ _music_ _until something in Dean gives way. Probably his better judgment_. _He yanks Cas back by_ _the hair and_ —]

**DEAN** :             Wanna fuck you, sweetheart. Wanna see you ride my cock, huh? Please.

[ _Cas shivers. Doesn’t hesitate_.]

**CAS** :                Yeah. Yes. I want to. Want you.

[ _For a moment, it looks like they might do it there_ : _Cas’ fingers find Dean’s belt, his zipper, and_ _Dean flows up into his touch_.]

**DEAN** :             Oh my _fucking_ —no, baby. No. Not here. Bed. Wanna see you. C’mon.

[ _He pushes Cas off but finds his hand. Tugs him out of the kitchen, down a narrow hall made of light and the music returns, fades up as they move towards the sound, towards the rest of_ _the party. Dean finds the right door and twists, yanks Cas in after. Slams the door and pushes_ _much of the sound away._

_The kitchen’s gone, the hallway. There’s just Dean’s room: skinny bed that’s a twist of pillows_ _and sheets. A couple of suitcases zipped and ready by the wall. A room that’s neat in a way_ _that says “break,” that says “end of the year,” that says “when I come back in three months it’ll_ _all look just the same.” Except. There’s a big poster over the bed, not framed but neatly pinned:_ _Van Gogh’s_ Starry Night.

_They see none of this. Can’t, through the flurry of kisses and clothes being tossed away. Boots_ _and shoes hitting the wall, shirts flying into the darkness and disappearing, until Cas has Dean_ _pinned next to his desk, naked except for his boxers, while Cas, the cheating bastard, still has on his jeans._

_They aren’t talking. Can’t, not using words, anyway._

_Behind them, beyond them,_ Starry Night _blooms out of its borders and takes over the entire_ _wall_. _Threatens to swallow the space in blue and blue and blue. The stars twinkle and the_ _water moves and it’s nighttime there, in Dean’s room_.

_Cas’ mouth leads him down Dean’s throat. Wanders down Dean’s chest, his hands fast on_ _Dean’s hips, keeping him still, even as Dean flutters and makes noises that shoot out through_ _Cas’ shoulders, that invade the lines of his body and make him rock back on his heels. He drops_ _to_ _his knees because it’s easier than standing and pushes his face between Dean’s legs. Has to_ _fight to keep Dean from bucking._

_Cas laughs, almost a gasp_ , _and shoves Dean’s boxers down. Dean groans like he’s been shot._ _Twitches like it, too, and gets a hand in Cas’ hair_.]

**DEAN** :             Come on, damn it! _Please_. Jesus fucking christ, you’re gonna—

[ _Cas sucks. Just a little. Just enough to get Dean’s cock wet. Pulls away, way too innocent and wide_. _Keeps stroking._ ]

**CAS** :                You wanna come like this? Thought you wanted to fuck me. Get your cock so  
                        deep, huh, make me want it, make me beg, Dean. You want me to beg?

[ _Dean whines and knocks Cas away. Shoves him towards the bed_.]

**DEAN** :             You teasing son-of-a-bitch.

[ _He gets Cas by the belt loops_.]

                      Off. Get this shit off already. God.

[ _Cas rears and pushes Dean into the sheets. Gets his jeans and his boxers off and, oh_. _He’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s seen in ages. Dean’s face goes soft with it, that beauty. His cock? Does not._ ]

[ _Cas lets him look, starts to slide over, then realizes—_ ]

**CAS** :                Where? Condoms? Where’s your lube?

[ _Dean leers at him and sits up. Reaches under the mattress and comes up with a well-worn tube. And a condom or two._ _Drops it all on his chest and smirks_.]

**DEAN** :             So? Come _on_.

[ _Cas rolls his eyes and curls over Dean, holding himself up but leaning down for a kiss. Or two_.]

[ _Then he reaches between them and snatches the lube. Straddles Dean’s thighs and sits back. Sits up. Holds out the tube_.]

**CAS** :                ( _grinning_ ) Open for me?

[ _Dean tries, he really does. But his motor skills have gone to shit. He hisses in frustration and Cas laughs. Grabs it back and snaps it open, easy_.]

**CAS** :                You can’t help, you gotta watch. Think you can do that? Just watch?

[ _Dean growls, turned-on annoyed and twitchy. Doesn’t answer_.]

**CAS** :                Good boy.

[ _His fingers drop and he squeezes Dean’s cock. Gentle. But enough to get Dean’s hips kicking and his mouth working_.]

**DEAN** :             God fucking damn it, hurry up! Wanna fuck, baby, please. Wanna fuck you.

[ _Cas wants, too. Very much. So he hurries: covers his fingers in lube and rubs them warm. Tips back over Dean’s knees and reaches around. Strokes a little. Slides one finger in, slow. Slow slow. He closes his eyes against the burn and withdraws. Does it again._

_Dean’s hands curl over Cas’ thighs. Watches the red streak over Cas’ throat and fights his own damn hips, which go on trying fuck anyway, his cock heavy next to Cas’. Oh._

_Cas works himself open, balanced on his knees. It hurts and his cock is fading until Dean’s fist finds it. Cas’ eyes fly open and he looks down, sees the head peeking over Dean’s knuckles and gasps. He starts to move, fucking himself on his own fingers and trying to slide through Dean’s fist at the same time. He finds a balance of pleasure and hangs there for a moment, like a clock that’s about to hit midnight_.

_Then it does, becomes too much, and he cries out. Bats Dean’s hand away and goes for the condom. The lube._

_Dean turns his head, closes his eyes while Cas is touching him, sliding the condom down and slicking him quick. A look too long and he’ll come and he doesn’t want that. Not yet. Wants to be inside_.

_Cas comes up on his knees and shifts his ass and comes down fast, way too fast, but he’s so hot that it burns out the sting, even of Dean’s nails in his back, his sides._ ]

**DEAN** :             Oh my god. God. Cas. C’mon, move. I’m gonna—

[ _Cas touches Dean’s face. Stops him_.]

**CAS** :                Yeah. You are. Now watch me.

[ _He rears back and fucks down and Dean loses it. Fucks his hips up as hard as he can, even as Cas plants a hand on his chest and grins all promise and want and rides Dean but good. Like he said he would._

_Dean keeps his word, too: lets himself go and wails and shoves up hard one more time. He comes with his whole body, his smile, until he’s shivering, hands still stuck to Cas’ thighs_.

_Cas pitches down, palms on either side of Dean’s neck, and they kiss. Slow and uncoordinated. Wet and just out of tune. Good._ ]

**DEAN** :             Let me. I mean, you haven’t—

                        [ _suddenly shy_ ] Can I see you come?

[ _Cas makes a little noise and nips his lip_.]

**CAS** :                Yes, baby. You can. But hold on.

[ _He sits up, slides off, and strips off the condom. Ties it off and drops it—somewhere. Climbs_ _back up and settles himself over Dean’s hips. Reaches for Dean’s hands_.]

**CAS** :                Please, Dean. Touch me, huh? Put you hands on me, baby.

[ _Dean strokes him and they both moan, Cas’ cock filling up in Dean’s palm._ ]

**DEAN** :             Yeah. That’s right. C’mon, Cas. Come on.

[ _Cas shudders. Slides his hand between his legs, under Dean’s, and touches his balls_.]

**DEAN** :             Jesus. Yeah. That’s it. Come on. Wanna see it, baby. Wanna see you come.

[ _Cas gets desperate, his body like electric, his mouth open and wet_.]

**CAS** :                Fuck. Fuck! _Fuck_ , Dean. Please.

**DEAN** :             Cas, yeah. Yeah. Come. Come for me. Know you want to, so hot for me, Starry, just let it go, c’mon—

[ _Cas shouts, pretty and broken, and shoots hard. Dean tips Cas’ cock down so Dean’s face gets covered in spunk and that makes Cas yell again. Dean groans, satisfied and dirty, and they kiss. One big slick happy mess._ _Then_ —

_It’s like they’ve landed back on planet Earth: the rest of the world returns. The hall’s visible again, and the kitchen beyond._ Starry Night _freezes, retreats to the lines of its pins_. _The sounds of the party in full swing. But Dean’s room, his bed, are still the center_.

_Cas sits up a little. Smiles._ ]

**CAS** :                So, um. Dean.

**DEAN** :             Hmmm?

[ _Cas doesn’t answer. Strokes Dean’s face and lets himself be. He’s happy and all of a sudden he knows it. Knows it won’t last long_.]

**CAS** :                You’re beautiful.

**DEAN** :             ( _yawning_ ) I, uh. Oh. What?

[ _Cas kisses him_.]

**CAS** :                Nothing, sweetheart. You should sleep.

**DEAN** :             Mmmmmm.

[ _Cas is a little more himself, now. The relaxation, the ease of earlier in the night is fading_. _He looks around the room. He realizes what he’s done, what he never does: fucked somebody he doesn’t know in a house that isn’t his and he starts to panic, a little. Because this is not him. No matter how happy he was in the moment. With Dean. This? Is not him._ ]

[ _He registers the suitcases_. _Puts his head back on Dean’s chest_.]

**CAS** :                You leaving in the morning? Going home?

[ _Dean shifts a little_. _Sighs_.]

**DEAN** :             Yeah. Home. Semester’s done. Over and out.

[ _Cas laughs, much quieter than before_.]

**CAS** :                Yes, I can see that.

**DEAN** :             ( _mumbling_ ) S’late. Flyin’ early. Too fucking early _._

[ _He drifts off, Cas’ body draped over his._ ]

[Cas _lies there for awhile, trying to drift but staying firmly planted in himself. As usual._ ]

[After _a time, he sits up and kisses Dean again. Soft. Touches his face one more time._ ]

**CAS** :                ( _whispers_ ) Goodbye, Dean. Have a good break.

**DEAN** :             ( _asleep; sighing_ ) Yeah, Starry.

[ _Cas’s heart breaks a little on his face, despite his best efforts. Sobriety fucking sucks_.

_He unwinds himself from Dean, who huffs and rolls over. Lets Cas tug a blanket over his shoulders_.

_Cas is a goddamn mess. He needs a drink. He needs a shower. But he needs to not be here more. So he yanks on his clothes and leaves without looking back_.

_The world contracts again to Dean’s room. Then his bed. Then_ Starry Night, _pinned fast to the wall_. _Stuck_.

_Lights fade away, quick; then they bloom._ ]


	2. Chapter 2

**SCENE II**

[ _It’s summer. Summer in Pittsburgh: bright white light of awful sweaty sun mixed with thunderclouds. For a few moments, these forces drift across the stage. Wash everything else away, scrubbed clean with the sound of the rain, and reveal_ **CAS** _and his brother,_ **GABRIEL**.

 _They’re in the living room of Cas’ apartment. It’s cramped, with Cas’ half-finished canvases and worn-down brushes fighting for space with the pretension of his roommate, (the unseen)_ **BALTHAZAR** _: fountain pens and silk scarves and hardcover books that take themselves too seriously._

_Gabriel’s in shorts and a t-shirt, a study in studied casual. He likes to pretend that nothing gets to him—he’s not an open wound like Cas is, sometimes—but there are times when he forgets and the compassion that’s always brewing under the surface of his skin, his easy smile, leaks through._

_He spends a lot of time at his brother’s apartment. Knows his ways in and around the clutter: where Cas hides his lighters, how to sit in the armchair without making it tip, where he can safely set his glass, because yeah, Gabriel’s drinking, something fruity and loud out of one of Balthazar’s really nice glasses, as he sprawls across the armchair sloe-eyed and smirking._

_Cas is in the same outfit as before, but his shirt’s even more of a dropcloth: he looks like he’s been rolling around in Benjamin Moore. Paint curls in long snakes around his wrists, pools in his elbows, and stains his fingers: blue and green and white. He’s smoking. He shouldn’t be. He can’t help it._

_The light hasn’t stopped; it keeps moving, clouds chased across the sky in a graceful glide, and falls on San Jose, on_ **DEAN** _and his brother,_ **SAM** _._

_They’re in their dad’s apartment, the one he left them when he died. It was theirs for a long time, but now that Dean’s away at school, the place really belongs to his brother. Being there together, again, makes them both a little uneasy. They’re having to relearn each other’s movements, the steps to a pas de deux that ran their lives for so long that they’re both shocked at how many of the paces they’ve forgotten._

_Sam’s lanky California: sandals permanently tied his feet, a faded t-shirt, and a blissful tan that makes his eyes seem wider, his face even younger, even behind his flashcards._

_Dean’s in jeans and sawdust, dirty boots and nervous tension a mile wide. It’s harder for him to be home than he thought, than it’s been before. His mind, it seems, is elsewhere. The breezy cool sex of Scene I has given way to itchy: he can’t sit still. He can’t drink. He can’t do anything but jangle like a lost set of house keys._

_It doesn’t help that the house is a mess: not dirty, just a goddamn disaster. Sam’s LSAT crap is all over the couch. Dean’s suitcase is still in the middle of the floor, the same place he dropped it the first night he got home. It’s a space, their apartment, in transition._

_The sun’s come to rest gently just above the horizon. It’s the end of May_ , _the beginning of summer break_.]

 **DEAN** :             What’s really fucked up is that I like him.

 **GABRIEL** :         ‘Course you do. You banged him.

 **CAS** :                That’s not what I mean.

 **SAM** :               Of course it’s not.

[ _Dean smacks him_.]

 **CAS** :                No, it’s—It’s his eyes. His face. He’s very Van Gogh. The night sky, the river.  
                       It’s all there. Sketched into his forehead. Cut in the lines around his mouth.

 **GABRIEL** :         Holy shit.

 **DEAN** :             What?

 **SAM** :               You do! You like _like_ him!

[ _Cas rolls his eyes and leans away, his body one big blush_.]

 **DEAN** :             Forget it, asshat. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.

[ _Gabriel grabs Cas’ arm_.]

 **SAM** :               Dude. Come on. Just—

 **CAS** :                _Fine_. But—

 **DEAN** :             But you treat me like a middle-school girl again—

[ _Dean and Cas speak in synch, and the two spaces, the two places, begin to bleed one into the other._ ]

 **DEAN** :              And I’m outta here.

 **CAS** :                And I’m out of here.

[ _Gabriel and Sam do the same_.]

 **GABRIEL** :         Ok, ok! I promise.

 **SAM** :               Ok, ok! I promise.

[ _Dean and Cas both perch warily, one eye on the door. On the nearest means of escape_.]

[ _The sun ticks higher in the sky. It’s June_.]

 **DEAN** :             ( _carefully_ ) I, um. There’s something about him, Sammy. I don’t—he was just, I  
                        don’t know, so—

[ _He really doesn’t want to talk, not about this. He’s tried to keep his mouth shut, but now it’s like Cas, that drunken fuck, has taken up permanent residence in his head, this beautiful blue-eyed thing that he can feel in the crick of his neck and if he doesn’t spill now, he’s gonna make himself crazy. Or spend the rest of the summer drunk. He takes a deep breath._ ]

                        —different from anybody I’ve met there. He like vibrated with weirdness. It  
                        seemed like he didn’t really belong in my goddamn kitchen, on the same  
                        planet, much less in my bed. But it was so easy being with him. It was  
                        like—we were singing on the same frequency, you know?

[ _Gabriel’s torn between incredulous and thrilled: happy that Cas leapt without looking for once and concerned that his brother’s making a hookup out to be something it’s not. He’s torn. So he defaults to dickish big brother_.]

 **GABRIEL** :         Uh huh. You’re a little melodramatic about this guy, don’t you think?

 **CAS** :                ( _sighing_ ) Perhaps.

 **SAM** :               Ok, well. So why haven’t you called him?

 **GABRIEL** :         Or emailed him or whatever? I mean, if this is the fuck that changed your life, Cas—

 **SAM** :               Don’t you want to know if he feels the same way?

 **DEAN** :             Um. I.

 **CAS** :                What if—what if he doesn’t remember me, Gabriel?

[ _Dean and Cas are in synch again._ ]

 **DEAN** :             He was pretty fucking trashed.

 **CAS** :                He was pretty fucking trashed.

 **DEAN** :             ( _this one hurts_ ) And he did just kinda disappear.

 **CAS** :                I might have—left.

 **GABRIEL** :         What do you mean, _left_?

 **SAM** :               As in, snuck out in the middle of the night?

[ _The two apartments have become one; all four men are in the same space, although they continue to interact with, and react to, only their own brother_.]

 **GABRIEL** :         You’ve never struck me as the fuck-and-run type, Cas.

 **CAS** :                I’m not! But it was late—

 **DEAN** :             And I was asleep—

 **CAS** :                Not that that absolves me, but—

 **SAM** :               That was kind of a dick move.

 **DEAN** :             I mean, if anything, you’d think he woulda been the one to pass out. He rode  
                       me within an inch of my life, dude.

 **SAM** :               ( _horrified_ ) Oh my _god_! Ew!

 **GABRIEL** :         I get the picture.

 **CAS** :               I was in the wrong, surely.

 **DEAN** :             Let’s face it, Sammy: I don’t have a chance with a guy like that when he’s sober.                        

 **CAS** :                So.

[ _Gabriel and Sam look at each other, exchange WTFs? across state lines and time. These brothers, theirs, they’re all in the same boat now._ ]

[ _As their eyes meet, the sun sneaks up another rung. It’s July_.]

 **GABRIEL** :         Castiel. As entertaining as it’s been to watch you flagellate yourself all  
                       summer—this has gotta stop. You’re gonna make yourself crazy.

 **SAM** :               And for what? I mean, ok, you don’t wanna call him.

 **CAS** :                ( _this is a bullshit argument and he knows it_ ) I don’t have his number.

 **GABRIEL** :         Jesus.

 **DEAN** :             What? What am I supposed to do? Call Chuck and be like, _hey man, I banged_  
                      _this hot piece of ass who says he’s a friend of yours and well, can I have his_  
_number_?

 **SAM** :               I hate you. Seriously.

 **GABRIEL** :       ( _he needs another drink_ ) Yeah, that’s what a normal person would do.

 **CAS** :                Shut up, Gabriel.

 **GABRIEL** :         A normal person who wasn’t more interested in self-denial than, you know,  
                       fucking _living_ already.

 **DEAN** :             Bite me. 

 **SAM** :               You do lean towards the martyr complex.

 **DEAN** :             Thank you, Psych 101 boy.

 **GABRIEL** :         God, you get bitchy when someone doesn’t agree with you. What, did you think I’d endorse this stupid plan?

 **SAM** :               The patented “let’s pretend it never happened” defense? Yeah, that’ll work.

 **GABRIEL** :         What happens if you run into this guy again?

 **SAM** :               The drama department can’t be that big.

 **GABRIEL** :         Face it, Cas: it’s only a matter of time before you see this boy again.

 **DEAN** :             ( _far too casual to fool even himself_ ) Nah. He’s a grad student, dude. They don’t mix with the likes of us.

 **CAS** :                ( _reaching for a haughty he really doesn’t feel_ ) I don’t hang out with children.

 **GABRIEL** :         No. You just fuck ‘em.

 **DEAN** :             Goddamn it!

 **SAM** :               I gotta hand it to you. You’ve really taken self-deception to a whole new level here.

 **CAS:**                 _Enough_ , Gabriel. That’s enough!

  
[ _The sun hits its peak: it’s August, at last._ ]  
  
[ _And the atmosphere shifts with it. What was fury now just makes both Cas and Dean fucking_ sad _. Which is strange—mourning for something that wasn’t. And it hits them, then: how much of a fuck up it was to blow the whole summer alone. Not to do a damn thing to get closer to what might have been amazing but now, now it’s burned off, flayed away by JuneJulyAugust, by a stubborn refusal to be the one reach out, the one to say_ maybe _. So._ ]

 **DEAN** :             ( _almost to himself_ ) I called him “Starry.”

 **CAS** :                He called me “Starry.”

 **SAM** :               What does that even mean?

 **GABRIEL** :         It means: you got it bad, dude.

 **DEAN** :             I dunno, it’s—It’s his eyes, Sammy. His face. He’s very, like, Van Gogh. The  
                       night sky, the river. It’s all there. Sketched into his forehead. Cut in the lines  
                       around his mouth. That’s him. My starry night.

 **CAS** :                It would—it would seem so.

 **DEAN** :             How dumb is that, huh? We fuck once and I’ve already got a pet name for the guy.

 **GABRIEL** :         ( _gently_ ) It’s not dumb at all.

 **SAM** :               Honestly, yeah. It’s a little weird.

[ _Dean smacks him again._ ]

[ _In synch:_ ]

 **CAS** :                What’s really fucked up is that I like him.

 **DEAN** :             What’s really fucked up is that I like him.

[ _August is over. The spaces filter back into the darkness as school—once more, again, always— shoves it way back to the front of their lives_. _Cas and Dean find themselves stranded on the edge of another semester, at the tip of one more year_. _They drift together, away from their brothers, and disappear._ ]

[ _Gabriel and Sam are the couch, the only part of the apartment that’s still visible._ ]

 **SAM** :               ( _to Gabriel_ ) Well. Like you said. They’re totally gonna run into each other, right?

 **GABRIEL** :         ( _passes him a bowl of popcorn_ ) Yup. Despite what they say about being “out of sight”—

 **SAM** :               —doesn’t mean it’s “out of mind.”

 **GABRIEL** :         Puts it all the more front and center, if you ask me.

 **SAM** : Yeah. Exactly.

[ _The couch floats away, into the shadows; and in the next moment, the lights are up, bright with the buzz of fluorescents, on—_ ]


	3. Chapter 3

**SCENE III**

[ _A long, high table surrounded by stools: the heart of a design studio tucked into the basement of the college’s Fine Arts building. There’s one door into the room, located downstage right, and there’s a suggestion of a chalkboard or a whiteboard at the back of the room. At the center of the chalkboard, out of proportion with the rest of the room, hangs a large_[ _color wheel_](http://clubcreativestudio.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/colorwheel2.jpg).

_It’s a well-worn space, this studio, one that’s seen more than its fair share of frustration, and  the table bears the scars of twenty years’ worth of Exacto knives and sharpie marker tattoos of profanity. In a few weeks, the room will be covered in tracing paper and balsa wood and styrofoam, littered with false starts and frantic first-year students stressing over deadlines, over their professors’ demands for impossible perfection._

_And over the decades, during the many hours of midnight work that it’s seen, the studio has absorbed some of that frenetic energy, those negative blasts of emotion, and anyone who lingers there will start to feel it: the anxiety that this space has learned how to breed._

_But for now, at the beginning of the term, it's clean. A blank slate._

_Except for_ **ANNA** _, who's perched at the table’s head. She's turning a simple model of the mainstage in her hands, one that reflects the set she’s designed for the first production of the school year. Her aura is floaty and cool: a long hippy skirt and metal bracelets up to her elbows. She looks like a creature of serenity, but there's a reason that everybody calls her the "Velvet Fist." Just not to her face._

_She's been in this position six or seven times before--marking time in an empty room, waiting for a production meeting to get underway, for yet another show to start--and it’s evident in her expression. Anna’s been at school, this one, for a long time: four years of undergrad and now in her second and final year of grad school. This is a world she’s familiar with, one that she’s convinced doesn’t hold any more surprises. She’s not cynical about the process, about what it means to make theatre, but it’s a job for her now. She knows the script of what’s to come, of what the next eight weeks will hold: a director’s temper, the actors’ pique, another line on her CV._

_Graduation, for Anna, can’t come soon enough._

_She was early by design, and now she's content to hum to herself in an empty studio. To enjoy the last few minutes of quiet before the school year really begins._

_After a moment,_ **DEAN** _enters, swinging a sketchpad and all the confidence of being a senior, of sitting on a production staff for the first time. This is a big deal for him; it’s rare for an undergrad be given an opportunity like this. It means a lot to him, Singer trusting him enough to give him this shot, and he’s determined not to fuck it up. He's excited, like a little kid on Christmas, but he’s doing his best to hide it under a confident grin, a clean plaid, and boots with a good polish._

 _He looks together in a way he hasn't before. His joy is infectious, and even Anna’s not immune._ ]

 **ANNA** :             ( _smiling_ ) Hi.

 **DEAN** :             Hey.

[ _He sticks out his hand_.]

                        I'm Dean.

[ _Anna takes it and pairs it with an appreciative whatfor. Her eyes linger on his face_.]

 **ANNA** :             Nice to meet you. I'm Anna.

[ _Dean glints right back and takes the stool to her right_.]

 **DEAN** :             Hi. You're the, uh--

[ _He gestures at the model._ ]

                        Set designer, I’m guessing.

 **ANNA** :             I am. And you're--

[ _She reaches over and plucks his plaid_.]

                        One of Singer's, I see.

 **DEAN** :             Yeah. It shows, huh?

 **ANNA** :             ( _amused_ ) You could say that.

[ _She leans forward, confidential, her hair falling over his arm_.]

                        So. You ready for the full Crowley experience?

 **DEAN** :             I--I don’t know. I've heard a lot of--

[ _He gestures._ ]

                        You know. He’s not one of Singer’s favorite people, that’s for sure.

 **ANNA** :             Feeling’s mutual.

 **DEAN** :             Right.

 **ANNA** :             But you’re not intimidated.

[ _Dean’s face ripples. It’s the first crick in his armor. But he hides it, quick_ , _and goes back to the bluster_.]

 **DEAN** :             Nah. I figure: I’ll put my head down and get the job done and not give him any  
                       reason to bitch at me, you know?

 **ANNA** :             Mmmmm.

 **DEAN** :             You worked with him before?

 **ANNA** :             ( _with a worldly air_ ) Oh, yes. Last winter. Did you see his version of _A Doll’s House_?

[ _Dean can’t keep his face quiet. Anna laughs._ ]

 **DEAN** :             The, um, the one that was set in a circus tent? That was--different.

 **ANNA** :             It was a goddamn mess, is what it was. Crowley at his most excessive. Even  
                        Zachariah couldn’t talk him out of putting Torvald on a trapeze.

[ _She pats his hand and loops her mouth towards empathy_.]

                        But Castiel was lovely, even amidst all the crazy. You’ll like working with him.

[ _Dean looks utterly confused. Then terrified. Then back to confused_.]

 **DEAN** :             Wait. What? Castiel? You mean Cas?

 **ANNA** :             Yes. You know him?

 **DEAN** :             ( _as if he hasn’t heard her_ ) _Cas_ is on this show? I thought Inias was going to--

 **CAS** :                ( _from the doorway)_ Inias has come down with mono, sadly. So I'm pinch hitting.

[ **CAS** _enters. He's wearing a dark t-shirt and a pair of halfway decent jeans he stole from Gabriel. His hair's tamed and his arms are free of paint. Even his shoelaces are tied._

 _The tension he displayed in Scene II_ _has morphed into something more complicated. For the first time, what Cas is feeling isn’t right there on his face. He’s careful, more considered, and playing at a different kind of confidence than he did in Chuck’s kitchen, throwing himself in the arms of a drunken stranger. Now, it’s something professional and composed, distant; this is the Cas that most people see everyday, one that Dean never has._

_Although the changes are simple—a small modification of what’s come before—it's evident Cas has put some effort into his appearance. He’s performing, as it were, for a very specific audience. Quite effectively, it seems._

_Dean can't take his eyes off him._

_Yes, Cas knew that Dean would be here. He suspected that he’d catch Dean by surprise. He’s had time to prepare for this second meeting, and in what follows, the ramifications of that advantage are evident: he’s much more at ease in this situation, this room, than is Dean._

_To start with, he can ignore Dean’s stare; he crosses straight to Anna, who greets him with open arms and a kiss_.]

 **ANNA** :             Darling! How are you?

 **CAS** :                Good to see you.

[ _She flips her hand towards Dean, her bracelets singing_.]

 **ANNA** :             Cas, this is--

[ _Cas takes a breath. He's had a few days to prepare for this moment, but even so, his first real look at Dean is harder than he'd imagined. All the what ifs and self-doubt that haunted him all summer are still there, hovering behind his eyes, but he pushes past it. Finally. Even manages to keep his voice steady_.]

 **CAS** :                I know. Hi, Dean.

[ _He meets Dean's eyes for the first time sober and—_

Yes.

_Whatever there was between them, all those months ago, it's still there, sitting right up on the surface, big and bright enough for even Anna to see. She tilts her head like she's wandered into the middle of a conversation in a language she doesn't understand but she's catching every third word, unspoken._

_Dean's face falls open and hot, and he starts to get up, unbidden, but_ **CROWLEY** _swoops in and stomps all over the moment._

 _Crowley's wearing a beautiful charcoal suit and a shark's jawline, and he's carrying a soft leather folio and a well-worn copy of the script. His face is equal parts disdain and self-centered glee. His countenance dares anyone to defy him. He is, in short, a tenured professor who doesn't give a good goddamn whom he offends, or why. If anything, he sees other people's offense as a professional responsibility. He's utterly certain in his creative vision, in his taste in lovers, in his command of the English language. It practically oozes from his well-tended pores, that self-righteous zeal._ ]

 **CROWLEY** :     Children! Your gentle commander has arrived. Set aside your petty concerns and make space  
                     in your feeble brains for my vision, please.

[ _He sweeps his eyes over the assembly_ _and juts his chin at Cas and Anna. Cas has taken the seat across from Dean, to Anna’s left_.]

                       You two I know.

 **ANNA** :             Indeed.

 **CAS** :                Nice to see you, Dr. Crowley.

[ _Crowley ignores them and smirks instead at Dean_.]

 **CROWLEY** :     Welcome from the depths of Singer's hell, boy.

[ _Dean opens his mouth_.]

 **CROWLEY** :     Tut tut, shop rat. No need for introductions. We’re here to work, not to make friends.

[ _beat_.]

                        Well, you’re here to work; I’m here to be a bloody genius. So let’s get  
                        on with it, shall we?

[ _He flings an arm elegant over his head._ ]

                        My show, as you know, the piece to which I will lend my art and the campus'  
                        ear is _Spring Awakening_. Nineteenth century German nihilism at its best! The  
                        sort of high art that can--that will!--penetrate the pickled brains of our  
                        undergraduate zombies whether they like it or not.

[ _He spins, a murderous turn_.]

                       And just to be clear, children, in case there’s still any question: we’re doing   
                       the _real_ version of this play, ok? Not that tarted-up pop music Frankenstein  
                       that’ll put butts in seats, sure, but then so would a self-immolation and no          
                       one’s suggesting we stage one of those this year. Unless you count whatever  
                       the fuck Rufus has planned for the spring, but, well. There’s no accounting for  
                       taste. Or an utter lack of it.

[ _Cas and Anna are resigned to go along for the ride, perhaps even a little amused at this point by Crowley's theatrics. Dean, on the other hand, is one step away from open-mouthed. He's heard stories, rumors, darkly muttered comments from Singer about Crowley’s asshatted inanity, but even those have left him utterly unprepared for what's unfolding before him. He white knuckles his sketchpad and stares._ ]

CROWLEY:       This is a story, children, of young love gone bad, twisted by a world that  
                       refuses to _acknowledge_ sex, much less discuss its intricacies, its many  
                       permutations, the opportunities it presents for self-destruction.

[ _He’s in full voice now_.]

                        Teenage pregnancy! Masturbation! Anxious homosexual urges! Not to  
                        mention the circle jerk that crowns Act III. All cut through the lens of a  
                        Teutonic empire in full stagger, of Germany before the wars: idyllic, isolated,  
                        unconsciously awaiting its own destruction.

 **DEAN** :             ( _sotto voce)_ We’re not gonna sell a single goddamn ticket, are we.

 **CROWLEY** :     The purpose of this exercise is not to sell tickets, mind--

 **CAS** :                ( _same_ ) Mission accomplished.

 **CROWLEY** :     Because theatre is not about money, boys and girls!

[ _He wheels around and bangs his fist in the table_.]  
  
                        It is about freedom!

[ _Bang_ ]

                        And pain!  
[ _Bang_ ]                       

                        And pushing your audience full of nitwitted gerbils to see, however  
                        reluctantly, the desolate state of their own lives. The absence of art in their  
                        everyday, because without _art_ in all of its bloody beauty, what purpose is  
                        there in living?

[ _There’s a long, heavy silence as Crowley’s face fucking dares anyone to disagree with him._ _Then he shifts suddenly, smooth, and cups Anna’s model in his hand_.]

 **CROWLEY** :        Now! Young Anna. Your design is, as always, wholly adequate in its  
                        execution.

 **ANNA** :              ( _dryly_ ) Thank you.

 **CROWLEY** :        But of course, the audience doesn't give a shit about the set. Unless it gets  
                        in the way of my vision. Or my actors. Thus! That said! Shop rat! How soon  
                        can you build Ms. Milton's utterly serviceable physical construct upon which  
                        to build my flights of metaphorical fancy, hmmm? I want my people in the  
                        theater and out of that fucking sweatbox of a rehearsal room as soon as   
                        possible.

[ _A beat, one that goes one a little too long, because it takes Dean a moment to realize that Crowley's stopped talking. And that he's waiting for Dean to respond_.]

 **DEAN** :              I don't know, sir. I haven't seen the plans yet, the preliminary ones, I mean,  
                        so I can't--

[ _Crowley looks like he's about to vault over the table_.]

 **CROWLEY** :     ( _roaring_ ) You haven't reviewed the bloody plans?! What else is there for you  
                      to do, hammerhead?

[ _Mortification and defiance duke it out on Dean's face_.]

 **DEAN** :             I can't review them, _sir_ , if I don't have them. I thought that was the purpose  
                       of this meeting, so we could talk over the--

[ _As he speaks, Anna produces a long roll of paper from her bag and hands it over without a word. Dean stutters mid-sentence._ ]

 **CROWLEY** :       ( _taking great delight in his incredulity_ ) You thought? You _thought_?

[ _Cas' eyes are darting back and forth between the car crash that is Crowley and the flush that's taken over Dean's face. As much as he’d rather stay quiet, he knows that Crowley's fury is manufactured, built solely for the pleasure of humiliating Dean--for being new, for belonging to Singer, for daring to talk back, it doesn't matter--and his heart gets the best of his mouth_.]

 **CAS** :                Dr. Crowley. Sir.

 **CROWLEY** :       What?!

[ _As if he's seeing Cas for the first time_.]

                        Ah. Castiel. Yes. So good of you to step in for the ailing Tiny Tim.

[ _Dean's taking advantage of the distraction and flipping through the plans as fast as he can. They're simple--not like the ones he'll have to draw up before his crew starts building--but they give him the basic dimensions of the set pieces. His face is full of calculations_.]  
  
[ _Anna's watching the drama unfold. A hawk, she's calculating, too, but something rather different_.]

 **CAS** :                ( _patiently_ ) You mean Inias.

 **CROWLEY** :       Yes, yes. Whoever. I really don't give a shit. As long as my set gets painted in  
                       the right fucking colors, you could be a goddamn bonobo for all I care.

 **CAS** :                One that can hold a brush, at least.

 **CROWLEY** :       I realize that's a bit of disqualifier, given the widow Harvelle’s  
                       embarrassingly low standards for you paint jockeys. Although Singer’s rats  
                       make you all look like bloody Rhodes scholars.

[ _He scowls and turns back to Dean_.]

                        Speaking of--!

 **DEAN** :             ( _confidently_ ) We can get the stuff for the first two acts—the hayloft, the living  
                        room, the schoolroom, the flats—free-standing in two weeks.

 **CROWLEY** :       ( _incensed_ ) Two weeks?! What, are you planning to carve it from stone with a  
                       goddamn butter knife?

[ _Dean doesn't blink. This shit he knows. And damn if Crowley’s gonna tell him otherwise._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Two weeks. Unless you want your actors falling through the furniture.

 **CAS** :                Three if you’d like it painted, too.

[ _They’re a good team, these two._ ]

[ _Crowley swivels between them, his face a fat red fury. Then--_ ]

[ _He_ laughs _, leans over into the table and slaps Cas square on the back_. _Cas and Dean are bewildered, while Anna shakes her head, bemused_.]

 **CROWLEY** :       ( _gleaming_ ) All right, boys. I’d have been happy with four, but thanks for  
                       taking the initiative. Nice to see techies with a bit of spine.

[ _He gives them this long bow, elegant and sure, and bellows his way out the door._ ]

                        Now get to work!

[ _Anna glides up, cradling her diorama and shaking her head. They can hear Crowley dancing down the hall_.]

 **ANNA** :             You’ve made a deal with the devil, fellas. You should be more careful next time.

[ _She slides out of the room with a sigh and one last glance back at Dean, who doesn’t notice. His eyes are fixed on Cas_.]

 


	4. Chapter 4

**SCENE IV**

[ _Upon Anna’s exit, three or four students from the scene shop drift into the wings, just out of the studio itself but visible in the shadows. They’re dressed in jeans, work boots, and plaid that’s seen better days: the uniform of Dean’s natural habitat. Perhaps they’re covered in sawdust, might be bearing hammers or a coffee can to catch nails as they fall._

_During what follows, the shop rats begin moving carefully, quietly into the scene, into what is the studio set. They disassemble the set pieces that fill it--the main table, the chalkboards, the stools--and silently carry the parts off stage._

_Only the color wheel remains untouched. As the set is broken down, the wheel becomes even more prominent, its colors warmer; for now, it is still lit from the front._

_For all of their industry, the rats remain silent, moving easily, like shadows themselves, in and out of the space. They do not interact with Cas and Dean, though they do move with an awareness of where the two men are; that is, the rats maneuver around Cas and Dean as if they too, are pieces of the set, other obstacles to be avoided. But in truth, it is the rats themselves who are part of the scenery; the focus, as the lighting makes clear, is upon Cas and Dean._

_In the moments after Anna’s exit, the two of them are still stuck on opposite sides of the table; neither one, it seems, wants to be the first one to leave_.

 _The space itself might be liminal, but for Cas and Dean, the other anchors them in the moment, and that is the only place that’s important, the only one that they need_.]

 **CAS** :                So. Can you really do it in two?

 **DEAN** :              Yeah. I’ll run the freshmen ragged and they’ll be cursing my firstborn kid,  
                        probably, but yeah. We’ll get it done.

 **CAS** :                Oh. Ok.

[ _Dean’s face goes dark for a moment; he feels defensive, all of a sudden, and he can’t keep that out of his voice_.]

 **DEAN** :             I don’t make promises that I can’t keep, Cas.

 **CAS** :                Well. That’s reassuring.

[ _There’s an uncomfortable silence. They’re both uneasy, a little skittish, but still: nobody moves_ \-- _except for the shop rats, who continue to slide around the space unnoticed_.

_Cas uses the pause in the conversation to study Dean._

_It surprises Cas a little, how reality is living up to the hype in his head, to the memories he’s borne all summer like scars: of Dean’s voice, the turn of his wrists, the beautiful bow his shoulders form on his back._

_Somehow, for some reason, Cas really_ doe _s like this guy, even when he’s all awkward sober. Perhaps even because Dean is nervous, because he seems to be reacting to Cas’ presence in a way that Cas himself finds promising. A pleasant surprise._

_Usually, in a given moment, Cas isn’t one to dwell on his emotions, to turn them twist them inside out to get a handle on what he’s feeling; rather, only after the fact will he carefully dissect them sometimes, pull each component part into his fingers, sort out each and every shade. But now, watching Dean blush and pretend that he’s not, watching him bite his lip and try not to smile—Cas feels the same joy he did the first time they met, when Dean kissed him with such surety, put his hands on Cas’ cock without a second thought._

_A different shade, maybe; but it’s still joy, just the same._

_Especially because everything about Dean’s composure, his inability to look Cas in the eye, suggests to Cas that Dean can sense it, too: how right it feels for them to be together again, even if it’s a bit strange._

_As they talk, the seed of confidence Cas carried with him into the studio upon his entrance starts to blossom, slowly but surely. Cas has Dean at a tactical disadvantage, and he intends to enjoy it._ ]

 **CAS** :                So.

 **DEAN** :             Um. Yeah.

 **CAS** :                It’s good to see you again, Dean.

[ _A few of the rats gather around the worktable and begin to disassemble it._ ]

 **DEAN** :             It is? I mean, yeah. Yeah. You, too.

 **CAS** :                ( _laughs a little, almost to himself_ ) Truth be told, I—I wasn’t sure you’d know  
                        who I was.

 **DEAN** :             What?

[ _One of the rats notices that Dean’s left the basic scene plans on the table. He rolls them up carefully and carries them away, offstage._ ]

 **CAS** :                I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.

 **DEAN** :             Why wouldn’t I?

 **CAS** :                ( _waving Dean off_ ) Never mind.

 **DEAN** :             No. Seriously. How the fuck could I forget?

 **CAS** :                I just—

 **DEAN** :             ( _his button is stuck on WTF_ ) You can’t be serious. Seriously?

 **CAS** :                I didn’t want to assume, that’s all.

 **DEAN** :             Sure. Ok.

                        [ _beat_ ]

                        That’s the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard. Wouldn’t remember you.  
                        Jesus.

[ _All of the elements of the studio set are now gone, except for the color wheel. It's become the space's heart._

 _The rats have turned their attention to the back of the stage, where a forest is steadily forming, one with old trees heavy with the promise of spring. Through the fruits of their still-silent labors, the rats begin to raise these trees one by one._ ]

 **CAS** :                Look—

 **DEAN** :             First of all, I don’t tend to forget people I’ve slept with, ok? And second,  
                       you’re—that was, like—I mean, I know I was drunk, Cas, but damn, you  
                       were—

 **CAS** :                ( _with an innocence they both know he’s faking_ ) What?

[ _Dean’s mouth is way ahead his good sense, of his sense of self-preservation. He knows better, damn it, than to say shit like this, and yet he can’t help himself._ ]

 **DEAN** :              I think you’ve ruined sex for me, for like, ever. Because, shit, you made me     
                        feel so—

[ _He has to turn away_.]

                        I don’t even know how to say it, god.

[ _Cas does his best to stifle a grin; he very nearly succeeds. Nearly_.]

 **CAS** :                Oh.

 **DEAN** :             Yeah.

[ _They are watching each other openly, now, circling like stars that want to collide but whose personal orbits are still keeping them safely apart._

_During the next beat in their conversation, though, both of those orbits start to decay, inexorable, and they drift closer and closer together._

_At the back of the stage, deep in the forest, the first hints of a sunrise._   _I_ _ts light beginning to leak through the color wheel, as if it’s stained-glass window. Panes of color begin to spill into what was the studio space, dripping over the floors and falling over Cas and Dean’s faces._

_Cas wields the silence like a matador’s cloak, drawing Dean out to make the next move._

_It doesn’t take much; just a flick of his wrists and a hint of a smile and Dean rushes right in._ ]

 **DEAN** :             So, uh, when Inias got sick, I mean, when you agreed to take his place—did  
                       you know that meant you’d be working with me?

 **CAS** :                Yes.

 **DEAN** :             And that—that wasn’t a problem for you? It didn’t seem weird or anything?

 **CAS** :                No. Why would it?

 **DEAN** :             ( _a nervous crack_ ) Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because the last time I saw  
                       you, you were coming all over my face.

[ _He sees the look on Cas’ face: a swirl of shock and amusement_.]  
  
                        Oh my god. I don’t know why I—Jesus. Sorry.

 **CAS** :                Dean—

[ _He reaches out and his fingers sweep over Dean’s arm. A little touch, a gentle pantomime of the way they’ve touched before. A reminder._

_Dean jumps like he’s been tasered and scoots away, doing his best to make it not seem like a retreat. Oh, but it is._

_For all that he’s thought about it, what it would be like to see Cas again, he’d never come up with a scenario like_ this _: one that put Cas right there hell there in front of him, all cleaned up and gorgeous and willing, just daring Dean to mess him up right. It makes Dean’s hands twitch, the pretty picture Cas makes, and he wants to hear Cas say his name again, a hundred times, a thousand: so much that it will never be enough._

 _It scares him, how much he likes this guy._ Really _likes, even though he’s making Dean jabber like a Muppet on speed, and maybe it’s not too far to say that Cas is pulling his strings._

_Yeah, it scares Dean, how much he wants from this guy he barely knows, that he’s had sex with, that he’s never heard opine about anything important like his favorite color or what baseball team he roots for or why he makes Dean so freaking crazy, even now, not doing a damn thing but being there in the same fucking room and looking at him, studying him like he’s Cas’ favorite painting._

_Dean’s on the precipice of something important in his life, he can feel it, for all that he’s reeling around like a drunken canoe; and it unsettles him, how much the next word out of his mouth wants to be_ Starry _._

_So he reaches instead for a peacock bravado that rings hollow, even to him._ ] 

**DEAN** :             I mean, it’s not like it’s a problem for me, working with you.

 **CAS** :                Really.

 **DEAN** :             This. Working together. Being in the same room and talking and shit. I’m a  
                       professional, ok?

 **CAS** :                No doubt, if Singer trusts you enough to put you on staff as an undergrad.

 **DEAN** :             ( _rallying a little_ ) Yeah. Yeah. Exactly.

 **CAS** :                You can handle it—

 **DEAN** :             Of course I can!

 **CAS** :                —working with Crowley.

 **DEAN** :             Ugh.

 **CAS** :                ( _soft and a little dark_ ) Being in the same room with me.

 **DEAN** :             Um—

[ _He watches Cas slide towards him, watches him stop just inside Dean’s personal space. And smile_.]

 **CAS** :                You can, right?

 **DEAN** :             ( _aiming poorly at levity_ ) Yeah, I—I mean, you didn’t think I was gonna like,  
                       swoon at your feet or something, right? Forget my own name and fall to my  
                       knees and like beg you to kiss me, um. No. No way, dude.

[ _It’s a sledgehammer to the mirror of the mood, although that’s not what Dean had intended._ _Something, all at once, isn’t right._ _The air between them draws up tight and electric as the_ _sunlight grows stronger, fills the room with more light; it forces them to look closely at each_ _other. It makes it harder to hide all the insecurities their one-night stand has left behind_.]

 **CAS** :                What?

 **DEAN** :             Yeah, you, uh. I bet you thought I wouldn’t be able to keep my shit together  
                       in your mighty grad student presence.

 **CAS** :                I don’t know what the hell you’re—

 **DEAN** :             You thought you could just sail in here, all put together and whatever, and I’d—

 **CAS** :                ( _sarcastic; it’s not a tone he wears well_ ) Yes, of course. Because my first  
                       concern was for you. Right.

 **DEAN** :              Obviously not, dude—because if it was, if it _was_ , Cas, you’d have  
                        said no and made them choose somebody else. You’d have stayed the fuck  
                        away from me, you wouldn’t have—

 **CAS** :                You’re a self-centered son of a bitch.

 **DEAN** :             Fuck you.

 **CAS** :                ( _incredulous_ ) This isn’t about you, damn it. I’m here because I have to be,  
                       because when Harvelle says jump, that’s not a question, ok? It’s a fucking  
                       command. God!

[ _He shoves his hands through his hair and his professional cool rushes away as fast as the words come out of his mouth_.]  
  
                        You think I want to deal with this crap? I was all set to go on _True West_ in  
                        November, you asshole! And now all that work is out the window, for  
                        nothing. This has fucked up my schedule for the whole goddamn term, and  
                        I’m supposed to graduate in May, ok? Get out of here, fucking finally, and  
                        now I have to add you _and_ Crowley to all the goddamn stress in my life,  
                        and you’re asking me to worry about your _feeling_ s, too? Well, fuck you, Dean!

 **DEAN** :             ( _reeling_ ) Cas, I—

 **CAS** :                No. No. You don’t get to do that. Who gave you the fucking right to—

 **DEAN** :             No one. No one. Jesus fuck, would you fucking stop—!

[ _He yanks Cas around, away from the doorway_.

_And Cas—_

_Cas has had enough._

_He’s stunned. He’s totally out of his depth._ _He needs to be somewhere that’s not here, again_.

_So he shoves Dean away, hard, and Dean—_

_He can’t figure out what the hell has just happened. How Cas—the man who kissed him like a fever, who made noise like the stars when he came—went all wide-eyed and white-hot and started storming his way towards the door_.

 _None of his daydreams about their reunion, when where and whatever it might be, ended with Cas pushing him away. Disappearing, maybe. Slipping away unseen again, sure. But staging a freakout like this, stomping away like an angry child? Never_.]

 **DEAN** :             What the hell!

[ _The sun is crowning and the space is bright, so much light, so much color, that it makes Cas’ head spin. He can’t understand how this happened, how he let his joy get away, get tangled in the weeds of their conversation; how he let himself lose control in Dean’s presence. Again._

 _All at once, he puts it on Dean, all his anger and confusion. Dean is between he and the door, and so Cas storms towards him sneering, scowling, his arms out and ready to push his way free if he has to. Whatever it takes to escape_.]

 **CAS** :                You self-righteous _bastard_ —!

[ _It may be unexpected, this kind of shit coming from Cas, but for better or for worse, this is a game Dean knows how to play: self-expression through fists_. _He gets his balance and comes right back at Cas, furious_.]

 **DEAN** :             Who the fuck do you think you—?!

 **CAS** :                Get off! Get _off_ me, you son of a—

[ _In one breath, they’re pushing each other away; in the next, they can’t get close enough._

 _Dean’s hands are on Cas’ face, Cas’ fingers are fisted in the back of Dean’s shirt, and they’re kissing. There’s an anxious intensity to it, the way they touch each other, without hesitation or grace, and yet there’s more than just desire in the way they meld together. As if they’d never left_.

_The colors that surround them lose their harshness and grow cool and easy and soft. Behind them, the trees shift their branches, approving, blocking out the rest of the world, if only for a little while. And, too, the trees bloom._

_Dean tucks Cas’ back into the door and keeps him there, palms pressed into Cas’ shoulders. He lifts his lips away and buries his face in Cas’ neck, painting the pale skin there with his mouth. Cas twists one hand in Dean’s hair and snags the other at his hip, shoving his fingers under Dean’s belt and grinding their hips together_.]

 **CAS** :                Dean. _Dean_ , oh, god.

[ _Dean groans and moves faster, working his hips in time with his teeth, sucking wet red blossoms into Cas’ skin as petals shake their way from the branches and start drifting down to meet at Cas and Dean’s feet._ ]

 **CAS** :                ( _tugging at Dean’s hair_ ) Kiss me. Jesus, please, need you to—

[ _Dean lifts his head and smiles, this great big beautiful thing. He smooths his hand over Cas’ cheek, his thumb just catching the edge of Cas’ mouth._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Starry. Sweetheart. Look at you. So pretty. God, you’re so—I thought I  
                       dreamed it, how pretty you were like this, how fucking good you felt in my—

[ _Cas makes a strangled sound--half-want, half-pity. He knocks Dean’s hand away and kisses him; wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and doesn’t let him go_.]

[ _Lights go up to full, quick, and then evening settles over the trees, revealing the soft lines of Cas' bed. And then--_ ]


	5. Chapter 5

**SCENE V**

[ _The sky is indigo, the turn of midnight blue. Beyond the trees, the_[ _lights of Pittsburgh_](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/f7/aa/26/f7aa264e7915e4ab36e1f1eae02cecd6.jpg) _flicker bright in the distance, curving down through the hills. There’s a suggestion of a bridge, perhaps, of water. Of height, as if Cas’ bedroom is perched dreamily above the city._  

_The trees are still present, friendly shadows, but as the scene progresses, they fade in prominence and shift quietly, almost imperceptibly, stage right, forming a single spier._

_Cas’ bed lays at the center, its head facing downstage, its foot slightly elevated so the bed tilts a touch towards the audience.  His bed is bigger than Dean’s, wider. There’s a duvet that drags the floor, a pillow or two._   _The other elements of Cas’ room are just visible; suggested, rather than clearly defined. There’s a small table, covered in paper, in jars of pastels and pencils. Books defying their shelf. A coffee cup full of cigarette butts. A chair._

 **_CAS_ ** _enters, flying backwards, his face turned into a bigger smile than it’s held in ages. As he hits the bed, the gentle light that surrounds it goes warm and a little stark, setting the bed in firm relief against the fading forest, the sky._

_Cas is wearing the same clothes as in Scene IV, but his fly is open, his cock peeking through, satisfied. His shirt’s wide open, too, his chest bare beneath it. There are petals in his hair, color amongst the tangled mess that Dean’s hands have made._

_His head tips upside down over the head of the bed and he stretches his arms above it, laughing, a sound that doesn’t stop when **DEAN** appears. Dean is moving like a superheated tiger, barefoot and languid, big teeth and a beautiful grin. His face is flushed and his mouth is a mess, smeared hot from Cas’ cock. He’s lost his top layer; as he enters, he’s shedding his second_.]

 **DEAN:** You.

 **CAS** :                Me?

 **DEAN** :             You.

[ _Dean reaches for Cas’ shoes. Tugs them off, inelegant as hell, and tosses them away._ ]

 **DEAN** :             You haunted me all summer, you know that?

 **CAS** :                ( _still that big, gorgeous smile_ ) Good.

[ _Dean grabs Cas’ legs and yanks him back up the bed, far enough so Dean can get his hands on Cas’ hips. Cas makes a shocked, hot sound and sits up on his elbows. They stare at each other, the air like a sudden filament between them._ ]

 **DEAN:** I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even when I really fucking wanted to  
                        forget.

[ _Cas shoots up and kisses Dean with a ferocity that startles them both. Dean falls onto the bed, onto Cas, his fists in the sheets beside Cas’ hips, Cas’ nails sharp on his shoulders. They press into each other, the bed singing reluctant as they rock together, their mouths knotted by kisses that are arcing towards frantic._ ]

[ _In the midst of this maelstrom, Cas gets his hands on Dean’s belt buckle and tugs, hard._ ]

 **CAS** :                If you fuck me, I’ll forgive you. For trying to forget. 

[ _Dean groans, a noise from the depths, and pulls away. He stands up and batters his jeans away, his hands clumsy with want. Doesn’t help when Cas sits up and peels out of his shirt, when he raises his ass and kicks his way free of his jeans. But he gets there, Dean. Eventually._

_There’s a moment when Dean is stark still, framed by the hills, the first hints of stars. The air is still, too, the light, and there between the sky and the shadows, Dean looks otherworldy, like some pagan god of sawdust and lust._

_And then he’s Dean again, biting his lip as he leans into the mattress, one knee between Cas’ legs. His cock is twitching hard against his stomach and Cas can’t help but tease it, his fingers tracing up the length and back, lingering at the head._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Oh. Oh, god. Do that again.

[ _Cas chuckles. Complies. More pressure this time, but still just a touch. And another. Again._ ]

[Dean’s _face is a kaleidoscope. He’s beautifully overwhelmed and making no attempt to hide it, all that he’s feeling._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Jesus, Cas, I—

[ _Cas reaches up, the tips of his fingers against Dean’s cheek_.]

 **CAS** :                Come on, baby. I need you inside of me.

 **DEAN** :             ( _eyes fluttering as Cas makes a fist, strokes him good_ ) Oh god, I want—

[ _Cas tugs Dean down, kisses him again. Softer this time, but no less insistent. He slides his palm over Dean’s neck, his back, his sides, easy counterpoint to his quickening fist, and Dean makes a sound like dark honey and starts fucking into Cas’ hand_.]

 **DEAN** :             I don’t—oh, fuck, I don’t think—

[ _Cas smacks Dean’s ass and pulls his cock, swift._ ]

 **CAS** :                You can’t wait to get inside me, is that it?

 **DEAN** :             Uh—huh—I—

 **CAS** :                Look at you. God. So hot for it you’re gonna fucking come on me, aren’t you?

 **DEAN** :             _Shit_ , shit, Cas, Cas—

[ _Cas grins, wicked ragged.  He knows exactly what he’s doing_.]

 **CAS** :                Go on. Touch yourself, baby. Jerk off right here. Let me see it.

[ _He lets go of Dean’s cock and Dean whimpers, fumbles to take Cas’ place. He sits up on his knees, straddling Cas’ chest, and it’s a relief to get a hand on his cock, it is, because he is fucking desperate. Seeing Cas stretched out beneath him, feeling Cas’ hands curving over his thighs, watching Cas’ eyes light up like little candles he’s stoking with every damn thrust._ ]

[ _He clutches Cas’ shoulder and leans into him. His body, his breath are unsteady, like balsa wood in the wind._ ]

 **DEAN** :             On you. Wanna come on you.

 **CAS** :                Yeah?

 **DEAN** :             I wanna to see myself on you.

 **CAS** :                Oh.

 **DEAN** :             All over your skin, Cas. Your mouth. Wanna rub it in.

[ _Cas’ body jerks and sound pours out of him, low and insistent._ ]

 **CAS** :                Yes, _yes,_ baby. Yes. 

[ _They’re on the same circuit, parallel currents, and Dean responds in kind: pulls himself harder, faster, starting into Cas’ face. Cas’ hands are spread over his ribs, his chest, pale birds across the ruddy flush of Dean’s skin._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Gonna rub it in like paint. Paint that’ll never come out.

 **CAS** :                _Fuck_.

 **DEAN** :             So every time I look at you, every time, I’ll know, I’ll know—

[ _Cas arches his head, lifts it from the bed, and slides his mouth over Dean’s chest. He drags his lips his tongue across Dean’s nipples and latches on, sucking them red and wet._ ]

[ _Dean shudders and he’s barely holding himself up now, his arm trembling, his knuckles pressed into Cas’ stomach as he jerks himself, furious, a torrent of heat and noise, of need and something more._ ]          

 **DEAN** :             Ah, god, Cas, yeah, _yeah_ , like that, shit, shit, I’m gonna—

[ _Cas’ teeth come down on Dean’s nipple, hard, and Dean comes, so completely, every part of him flying, that it’s silent, he is, his mouth turning around words that aren’t there, that just can’t be._ ]

[ _There’s white on Cas’ chest, on the edge of his chin._ ]

 **CAS** :                ( _still stroking, easy_ ) That’s right, baby. That’s right. Come on. Mark me up.

 **DEAN** :             ( _with a gasp_ ) Jesus fucking—

[ _His body wrenches up, a live wire, one last shot of color on Cas’ chest._

_Beyond them, behind him, the tree have coalesced into a single spire, stage right. Solid trunk and curves like flames, its branches stretched upward, into the rafters. The stars are out in force, now, echoes of the city lights far below. Their light seeps into Cas’ bedroom, streets of gold that fall over the sheets._

_For a moment, again, Dean hangs in between, framed by the night, the stars. He is still, he is shaking, and it’s Cas who breaks the spell, who sits up and kisses him, draws him back down into the bed._ ]

 **CAS** :                God, you’re fucking gorgeous when you come. Christ. 

[ _Dean laughs, buries the sound in Cas’ neck._ ]

 **DEAN** :             I don’t—I don’t know about that.

[ _Cas turns his head and tucks their mouths together_.]

 **CAS** :                Oh, I do.

[ _Dean kisses him again, somehow, through a big fucking grin. Cas strokes his back and opens his mouth and they linger over each other for a while, slow and sweet._ ]

 **DEAN** :             ( _muffled_ ) For the record, I still wanna fuck you.

 **CAS** :                ( _laughing_ ) You’re damn right. You’d better.

[ _He rolls them, sudden startle, and pitches up, plants his knees against Dean’s hips. He smiles, remembering, and drags his nails over Dean’s stomach._ ]

 **CAS** :                “I step on a tube of paint and he wipes his brushes in my hair.”

 **DEAN** :             Hmmm?

[ _Cas splays his hands, takes in as much of Dean’s hot skin as he can._ ]

 **CAS** :                It’s from the play. _Spring Awakening_. You know, the one we’re working on?  
  
                       ( _teasing, with both his fingers and his voice_ ) You did read the damn thing,  
                       right?

 **DEAN** :             ‘Course. Didn’t memorize it, though.

 **CAS** :                Well.

[ _He presses a kiss to Dean’s breastbone._ ]

                        It made me think of you, that line. That’s why I remembered it.

 **DEAN** :             ( _arching pleased into the touch_ ) Oh?

 **CAS** :                It’s when Ilse’s trying to get away from Mortiz. You know, when he starts to  
                       go bonkers from all the sexy sex he wasn’t supposed to be sexing?

[ _Dean laughs_.]

 **DEAN** :             Fuck, please tell me you’re writing the summary for the program. Please.

 **CAS** :                 She’s trying to keep him from painting like a madman, all the damn time,  
                        and she can’t. Nothing she does works. She destroys his easel, he doesn’t  
                        care. She slaps him, he kisses her anyway.

 **DEAN** :              ( _his voice a raised eyebrow_ ) Uh, and that made you think of me? Sounds a hell  
                        of a lot more like Crowley.

[ _Cas snorts_.]

 **CAS** :                 No, Dean. It made me think of how I feel when I think about you.

  
**DEAN** :              Hmmmm?

[ _Cas leans over and gives Dean his mouth for a moment. Then two. Gives him a minute to think. When he finds the words, he sits up again._ ] 

 **CAS** :                You’ve—you’ve been all over me since the moment we met. Your color in my  
                        hair, the first time you put your hands in it. Your brushes on my skin, turning,  
                        day and fucking night. And every time I tried to look away, to kick over the  
                        easel of you in my head, you’re right back in my face, chasing me, chucking  
                        your palette at my heart and saying _Cas, Cas._ I—

[ _He stops, searching._ _Dean gives him a moment, and then—_ ]

 **DEAN** :             ( _shy_ ) Do you remember what I called you? When we met?

[ _Cas stretches his hands, finds Dean’s fingers and catches them in his own_.]

 **CAS** :                Yes. Of course. You called me Starry.

[ _Dean squeezes Cas’ hands._ ]

 **DEAN** :             Mmm. Yeah. I, uh. I saw it at the Museum of Modern Art last year, in New  
                        York. _Starry Night_ , I mean. By Van Gogh.

 **CAS** :                Mmmhmm.

[ _Over the course of the next few lines, Dean nudges Cas from his hips and sits up. He kisses Cas, whenever he gets there, then settles behind Cas’ back. He wraps his arms around Cas’ chest, holds him close_.]

 **DEAN** :              Sammy dragged me in there to look at some Rothkos or something and I was  
                        bored. Kind of deliberately wandered away from him as soon as I fucking  
                        could.

 **CAS** :                Sammy?

 **DEAN** :             Oh, he’s my kid brother. Sam.  
  
                        ( _he smiles)_ I forgot. You haven’t met him yet. He’s fucking brilliant. And kind  
                        of a pain in the ass. 

[ _Cas chuckles_.]

 **CAS** :                I know the type. So. Van Gogh.

 **DEAN** :              Ok. So I go into this one room and—I’d seen like postcards of Van Gogh’s stuff  
                        before, pictures of his paintings in books or whatever, but none of it made  
                        any impression on me. Like, at all.

[ _A breath_.]

                        So I wasn’t expecting it, what I felt when I saw it. The colors. The like punch  
                        in my lungs that brought me to a halt, a fucking standstill, right there in the  
                        middle of the gallery.

[ _He turns his face and looks into Cas’ eyes and there’s a flicker of what he felt, then. Coming face to face with_ Starry Night. _Beautifully overwhelmed._ ]

[ _Above him, the stars blossom, slowly, extending from points of light into echoing circles of yellow and white._ Starry Night]    

 **DEAN** :             I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. Hell, I don’t really care. It just—like, I got  
                        it, in that moment. Why people dig art. It made me _feel_ , ok,  this deep and  
                        immediate thing.

[ _Cas’ head has drifted to Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s hand in his hair._ ]

 **CAS** :                Mmmhmm.

 **DEAN** :              And that’s—that’s the same way I felt when I first saw you, standing in my  
                        fucking kitchen like you owned the place. This deep and immediate  
                        thing. Even before you said a word, before I ever touched you, some part of  
                        you, like, spoke to my soul.

[ _Cas finds Dean’s hand and kisses it._ ]

 **CAS** :                Oh, sweetheart.

 **DEAN** :             ( _flushing_ ) I don’t—I know it sounds weird, ok? You can say that. If it’s weird.

[ _Cas grins_.]

CAS:                Yes, it’s weird. But that’s what makes it beautiful.

[ _A kiss._ ]

                        And you.

[ _Dean relaxes, lets out a breath he’d been holding hostage_.]

 **DEAN** :             Yeah, well. Ok.

[ _Behind them, the image of_ Starry Night _has fully formed: the coalesced trees forming its spire; Pittsburgh’s hills, its lights, echoing those of southern France, long ago; the stars fully ablaze. It’s not an exact copy, as appeared in Scene I. No, this version is Cas and Dean’s own, a snapshot of this moment, this night. A suggestion of all those that lie ahead._ ]

 **CAS** :                ( _a little quieter_ ) I wish I hadn’t left you, that first night.

 **DEAN** :             You’re not leaving me now, are you?

 **CAS** :                No. God no.

 **DEAN** :             Good.

[ _beat_ ]

                        Because this is your house, dude.

[ _Cas laughs, loud and stupid, and Dean grins, grabs Cas in both arms with a growl and half-tackles him flat into the mattress_.]

 **DEAN** :              What am I gonna do with you in the morning? I’ve never seen you in  
                        that light. Mmmmm. I bet you’re fucking gorgeous first thing.

[ _Cas turns his arms around Dean’s neck and rolls them over, presses Dean deep in the sheets,_ _into the shadows. The starlight is tight on Cas now. Midnight blue sits on his shoulders, his hair ablaze with indigo and white._ ]

 **CAS** :                Fuck the morning. This is tonight. Let’s stay here for a while, all right?

[ _Dean’s hands snake out of the shadows and up to Cas shoulders, smearing gold into Cas’ skin, gold that mixes with the blue and runs green. Cas catches Dean’s wrists, pale blue, as Dean’s fingers trace his collarbone, his throat, the curve of his jaw._ _Cas’ head falls back as Dean touches him, as_ Starry Night _washes over his skin._ ]

 **DEAN:** ( _A sigh)_ Ah, Cas. My Starry.

[ _Cas tips his chin and gives Dean a beautiful grin, and—_ ]

[ _Blackout_.]

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to DarkCaustic for reviewing earlier drafts of this piece, years and years ago.
> 
> Stage directions are one of my favorite genres. If this tale has made you curious, I highly recommend Eugene O'Neill's for their nuanced excess; Tom Stoppard's, which never fail to be arch, sharp, and beautiful; and, for a minimal twist, Harold Pinter's.
> 
> [Spring Awakening](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_Awakening_\(play\)) was the first show I (paint!) crewed on in college. Needless to say, the damn thing made an impression.
> 
> Finally, my playwriting teacher, long ago, told me that I had to master "serious" drama--the forms, the style, the function--before I could write the crazy shit that kept leaking out of my pen. Well, Bill: I'm glad I've ignored your advice.


End file.
